


Waves Amongst Stardust

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Fluff, M/M, Not super explicit but be careful if that kinda thing gets to you, Panic Attacks, Pining Lance (Voltron), an unnecessary number of weather metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: The flutter of Lance's heart is almost lost to the homesickness pounding through his veins.Almost.





	

In the distance, a crow calls.

No—it's not a crow. This isn't earth. This isn't home. In the distance, a creature calls.

Lance turns his gaze from the hilly forest landscape to the ruins before him. Shiro stands a little ahead of him and the others, arms crossed, as he appraises the scene. Finally, he lets out a soft sigh, barely audible, and says: “I think it's safe to say we were too late.”

It sounds like a confession.

The entire planet is so achingly earth-like. The blue sky is only a fraction darker. The grass is green, though the texture more like noodles than blades. Lance is pretty sure he'd seen a lake or something as they were flying in. There are trees—actual trees. Some of them have acorns that had crunched beneath Lance's feet as they searched for the civilization that had sent the distress beacon.

A stab of guilt pangs through Lance's chest. _That_ is what he should be concerned about—the people who prayed and prayed for help for thousands of years and it _never came—_ the people who depended on them—the people Voltron _let down_.

But.

How is he supposed to care about others when he feels so broken?

No—not broken.

 _Empty_.

He misses home. He misses it so much his entire being aches. And today, in this place, it all bears down on him, a twisting feeling in his gut that makes him feel sick—of both the planet and himself. And beyond that, he's selfish enough to _want_.

Lance gaze flicks uncertainly to Keith before he tears it away to focus on his boots.

“Well, head back to the lions, I suppose,” Shiro announces into the settling silence.

“We're not gonna... check it out at all?” Pidge offers. “There might be refugees, or maybe some tech?”

“Well...” Shiro turns and watches the green paladin. He looks uncertain—something about this place must set him off. Or maybe, Lance thinks, maybe it's just too foreign too him. After all, he hasn't been to earth for longer than a couple days in over a year. Probably closer to two, adding the traveling out to Kerberos and the time—what, months?—they've all spent out in space. Hell, if Lance's bones didn't cry out to go back home every night, earth would probably feel foreign, too.

“Shiro?” Hunk says, raising his hand. He casts an anxious look in Lance direction before continuing. “Yeah, why don't we hang out a bit here? I mean—it's a nice place, and I think we could use a break, even if for a just a little. If we go back, Allura's gonna make us train.”

Keith snorts in response, crosses his arms, and turns away. It pains Lance how hyperaware of it he is, how such simple things draw him like moth to a flame.

Lance kills the snarky response that burns the back of his throat. He's too bitter; better to keep it in, for now. Let one person, one sentence, one idea from the others worm its way under his skin, and he'll crack. It will be savage and terrible, and they would hate him for it, probably as much as he hates himself.

“Alright,” Shiro concedes, prompting Pidge into a fist pump in the air. “Just stay close, okay guys? Pidge, you especially. Take someone if you go exploring the ruins, and check-ins every fifteen dobashes.”

“That's a long time,” Lance hums, voice light. “We aren't staying here all day, are we?”

“ _Minutes_ , Lance,” Pidge corrects.

 _I know_ , he snaps in his head, but what he says instead is: “Oh. You know, I don't think I'll ever get this dumb Altean timekeeping.”

That earns him an eye-roll from at least two of his team members.

“Hunk?” Pidge says, and motions with a half-shrug towards the ruins. “You coming?”

“Y-yeah, let's go, I guess. But if there's anything spooky, we're coming back out right away,” Hunk rambles, chasing after Pidge's form scrambling over a fallen column.

Shiro sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his human hand as he watches the two paladins disappear into the rubble. Lance echoes Shiro's sigh, though it comes out as more of an angry huff, and plops down on a slab of rock. After prying it from his head with far more force than necessary, his helmet hits the dirt with a resolute _thud_.

“What are you doing?” Keith hisses at him, glaring through his visor.

“Sitting. What's it look like?” Lance snaps, and then looks pointedly away from Keith. Keith doesn't want him. He can't. He _can't_ , not when he's so lost in everything he does. That was a mistake, though: his gaze lands on the sun, hanging yellow and bright against a cloudless sky, and Lance's chest tightens almost unbearably. God, what would it feel like to breathe normally again? Without this weight of panic and longing.

“You should keep your armor on,” Keith growls.

“Coran said the air was fine,” Lance retorts, still refusing to look at Keith. He tears his eyes from the sunlit horizon, just as tears begin to prick against his eyelids. He stares, instead, at an indeterminate chip in the rock he's sitting on, blinking until he can promise himself he won't cry. It's a fragile line, fragile hope in the pricks of ice in his veins.

“It's not—” Keith starts, but then cuts off abruptly. Lance hears Shiro muttering something, though he can't make out the words, and Keith starts out with a loud reply: “But he's—”

“Drop it,” Shiro orders.

Lance glances over, a too-sweet smile on his lips. _Don't crack, don't crack_. He's like broken glass, held by a layer of glue too thin to hold itself together. Not in front of Keith. He has to be good. He has to be strong. It's all too much. “Like a dog obeying his master,” he tells Keith.

Keith's hands ball into fists at his side. He starts to stomp over, but Shiro latches onto his arm. “Don't,” their leader says, the voice of reason. Always reason, always logic, always what's good for the team. 

“Let me go,” Keith says, surprisingly calm despite the fire in his eyes. They blaze, like the experiments Lance remembers from chemistry in his first year at the Garrison: potassium burns violet, violent combustion.

Lance keeps the saccharine smirk in place, leaning back on his hands as Keith storms over, a hurricane indeed. Even as Lance pushes his chest out just the tiny bit more, he tenses for the blow, readying for the angry crack of Keith's palm across his cheek or the punch to his jaw. But instead, Keith stops just short of him, hands still clenching into fists and relaxing, a countdown clock as emotions pass unbridled over his countenance. “You...” he says slowly, darkly, and he glares at Lance through his bangs. “What's wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with _you_?” Lance fires back. He crosses his ankles amicably. Don't fall apart. Keith is the unrelenting wind, fighting against Lance's fragile glass figurine soul, slowly wearing the glue into nothing. He's fire and thunder and typhoon, and Lance is doing everything he can to not be swept away by the tsunami.

Lance glances past Keith, eyes flickering to Shiro. He stands, unmoving from where he'd stopped Keith earlier. His gaze is uncertain, but appraising.

In the distance, a cry for help. No, wait—that was Lance's mind echoing back at him. The smile falters.

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith says—soft, a gentle breeze when Lance expected a terrifying gust. His gaze snaps to Keith instantly in surprise, feels his jaw drop slightly because, God forbid, Keith looks sad. His shock simmers into anger; is that pity? Pity. Lance doesn't want pity. He wants a family. He wants his family _back_. He doesn't need Keith—doesn't need anyone—he needs—he needs—

Lance's teeth click together with the force with which he snaps his jaw shut. “What?” he grits out, turning away from Keith's glassy expression.

“Lance, _please_ ,” Keith says, still in that achingly comforting whisper. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” Lance bites out. “Nothing's wrong.”

“You're not okay.” Keith reaches for Lance's shoulder.

He catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and slaps Keith's hand away. Lance takes in a smug droplet of satisfaction that Keith looks a little stunned. “I'm _fine_.”

“Lance—I'm—I'm not good at this, but you obviously won't talk to Hunk or Pidge, and there's obviously something up with you, so if you're not going to take it to Shiro, then that leaves me. Now talk.”

“What makes you think I want to talk to you?” Lance growls, standing suddenly, forcing Keith to stumble backwards from the proximity. _Stop this; stop it_. _It's not his fault. It's you, youyouyou. He doesn't deserve this_. “You're brash and aggressive, and just—just leave me alone! I don't want your help!”

Lance feels panic rise as his voice does, louder and pounding in his ears the way the rush of blood drowns out everything else.

 _Help me_.

He'll never be good enough for Keith, not like this.

“Lance—I'm s-sorry,” Keith manages, taken aback. Over his shoulder, even Shiro looks startled. “I didn't mean—I j-just... I want you to be okay.”

“Yeah? Well I'm _not_ ,” snaps Lance savagely. It's too vicious, even to his own ears, but he can't take it back now. The window is shattering—frame bent and broken, and soon the water will come flooding in, leaving unrepairable damage in its wake. The beach is never the same after a storm, and so Lance will never be the same after he _breaks_. “I'm not, and it's not your problem, so just leave. Me. Alone.”

Each word is punctuated by getting closer to Keith, snarling into his face, before Lance turns on his heel and stalks away.

He's shattering, falling apart—don't they see? Do they notice? Do they _care_?

“Lance,” Shiro placates, but Lance needs space, needs freedom, needs family, not this ragtag team of strangers.

“No!” Lance shouts backs, and neither paladin follows him into the trees.

He's alone.

 

Despite the fact Coran made it expressly clear that the air was no more harmful than that of the castle's oxygen recycling system, there's a distinct sweetness to the breeze that makes everything seem just a little too cloying, a little too heavy. The trees dance, a slow waltz to the tune of flitting sunlight, and Lance staggers through the foliage, brushing away the winding vines that cling to his form, hold him back like the hands of those who call themselves _friends_.

A branch snags on his shoulder, and Lance flings himself away from the assault, breathing heavily. He takes a moment to remind himself that he wanted this—he wants the solitude, the isolation, the _loneliness_. At least, this is what Lance tells himself. This is why he pushes all the other away. This is why he dodges Hunk's worried gaze; why he can't bring himself to linger in Green's hangar for too long, if even just to keep Pidge's silent company; why he can't let Shrio see the way his shoulders slump under the weight of it all.

Why he can't let Keith see how weak he is.

Keith, who is fierce and strong and perfect, who Shiro favors, who's closest to his lion, who's so much _better_. Prodigy child from the start. And Lance—this fragile scrap of nothing, longing for his hometown because at least he was the top-dog amongst his siblings. They loved him, they looked up to him, they respected him. _That_ 's _what a family is_ , not this pecking order, fighting for praise or kindness.

Lance stumbles onward, flitting lethargically from tree to tree. He leans hard on each trunk, chest heaving, because it's all too much. Lance is falling, tipping over the edge of this vast ledge, pulled down by the dark tendrils of self-doubt. He doesn't have enough air, and curses weakly into the breeze as his vision swims. Maybe Coran was wrong—maybe he is going to die, all because he was too stubborn to keep his helmet on.

Lance's heart pounds, a staccato beat against his ribcage, and fear slams into him so forcefully that he loses his grip on the tree and tips downwards, landing on his side on the acorn-covered ground. Rolling, he gasps for oxygen, trying to drag in air on instinct even though it's poisoning him. Lance pulls his arms into his chest, hugging himself, as he stares at the leafy canopy above him, tears burning tracks on down the sides of his face.

He can't die, not like this. He needs to save the world first—he needs to see his mom again—he needs to tell Keith—a stray hiccup forces it's way past Lance's throat, scaring him into thinking he's choking. What about his siblings? They probably all think he's dead anyway, but how long before they give up hope? What happens when the others defeat Zarkon and go back to earth, tell his mom _sorry, you're son didn't make it because he couldn't keep his damn helmet on_.

Lance chokes for a moment on a sob, before his shuddering body manages to draw in another breath. Everything feels vaguely numb, and Lance is floating even though the weight on his chest keeps him pinned to the ground. What about the others? What would they think? Would they mourn him? Would _Blue_ mourn him? Surely, his lion would care, at least; surely she would remember him. Maybe the next blue paladin would find little hints of his existence in Blue's cockpit, or maybe the his team members would. Maybe they would give him a space burial, send him out into the vastness in a spare pod.

Lance squeezes his eyes closed, still struggling to breathe. Panic flares in his nerves, and he feels dizzy even though he's laying flat on his back against a soft bed of noodle-grass and leaves. At least he dies caressed by a world as earth-like as space can provide. But then a shaky breath manages to tear through his throat, filling him, reminding his muscles how to move, his brain how to think rationally.

Lance draws in air like a man saved from drowning—maybe he had been, and somehow, somehow, he pulled above the surface. He lays still, feeling the panic wash over him in waves, but he can _breathe_ now, and that's enough to keep him sane even as everything else is a constant pressure on his heart. Voltron, Keith, home. They stab like arrows against his fragile soul, all pinpricks of things he calls far too much about, all battling for the top—all tearing him apart because they're all things _he's not allowed to have_.

Lance feels the ache of longing in his bones, amplified into electricity by the fear flooding his system. So, he's not dying, but the harshness of being the seventh wheel in a team meant to bare their souls to each other sure does do a damn good job of making him feel like he is. Keith, in all his intangible vivacity, who lives and breathes instinct and liberty as he soars far above Lance, both literally and figuratively. Lance knows he should just _stop comparing himself_ , but it's been ingrained in his being, this ambitious streak, and there are times where Keith feels so close, so physically _there_ , that maybe if Lance just stretched himself a little further, he'd make contact. He could grow, he could learn, he could _fly_ with Keith.

But then Keith sees something in the distance, some fleeting thought, and goes chasing after it, leaving Lance shackled to his insecurities.

And then Lance feels the pang of homesickness stab through him, and he's doubled over on the ground, torn between his starry aspirations and the comfort of the known.

Something warm alights on Lance's face, and, squinting, he peers up to see that he's found a clearing in the trees, and the sun is creeping along at just the right angle to splay light over Lance's body. With a soft groan, Lance rolls over, managing to summon some strength to his limbs to shakily get to his feet. His body trembles from the effort, but slowly, wearily, he staggers into the clearing.

Before him, the soft meadow of the ground is interrupted by circles of rock, mushrooms dotting between the stones. Within each circle shimmers a gentle pool, still but clear, a reflection of imperfect beautiful sky. Lance drops to his knees, about to dip his hands in—maybe he can get some of his sanity back with a drink or a splash to his face—but freezes, hovering over the water.

Instead of his face framed by blue and sunlight, the surface mirrors back a vision of indistinct shapes, fuzzy blotches of color against the otherwise clear image. As Lance watched, however, the picture takes form: familiar huts, the small bodies of Arusians bustling about, village rebuilt after the attack though not as grand as previous. A pair Lance thinks he recognizes stop to chatter together before moving on with their day, and Lance is caught in a state of puzzled interest.

A splash from a nearby pool draws his attention. Crawling over, Lance peers down, and the water shifts to reveal its own premonition. Lance tastes the scent of laser fire on the back of his tongue before the image finishes forming, but the shades of purple and dark make it brutally clear what's happening: a Galra attack.

Lance doesn't recognize the planet, but he recognizes the distressed cries of these helpless beings. Lance watches in horrified disgust, but he can't look away. This—this is what Voltron is fighting against, what he's fighting against. Maybe he could help them if he wasn't so weak, yet here Lance is, choking on fear and sobs. He wants to help, but he can't, _he can't_. He's not strong enough—send Keith, or Shiro. Pidge, even, who's brain is beyond any of the others', could do more than Lance, or Hunk, who's righteous protectiveness could lead him to victory.

One alien—it's a soft, defenseless-looking creature, with four legs and fuzzy antennae—cowers behind a rusting metal frame of some machine. A Galra soldier fires recklessly in it's direction, and the ricocheting bullets spray across Lance's view. Flinching, Lance finally manages to spur himself into action—he can't watch anymore—and plunges his hand into the water to distort the vision.

He pulls his hand back with a sharp yelp, a laser bouncing off the back of his hand where his singes the cuff of his armor. It flares into the sky before it fizzles into the atmosphere, and Lance flings himself backwards, chest heaving.

These aren't just visions; they're _portals_.

 _Home_. _He could go home_.

Instantly, Lance regrets the thought. He can't leave. He can't. He's supposed to stay with the team. But, he left his family with absolutely no warning, and they probably think he's dead. He's bonded by blood with his relatives scattered across Cuba. They didn't deserve that treatment. And Voltron is barely a team, much less a _family_ , so in comparison, would letting the other paladins all think he just disappeared be no more brutal that what Lance has already put those he loves through? It almost feels fitting. _Right_.

Lance staggers to his feet, displacing some of the rocks around the pool when he clutches at them to push himself off the ground. One tips into the water with a soft _plop_ , but Lance doesn't stay to watch it plummet from the high vantage point of the pool and onto the scene. Distantly, he hears some cry, though of outrage or pain, he's unsure. Lance turns his back on that portal, and his gaze dances among the many others scattered across the ground in the clearing.

There's... surprisingly few. The universe is so expansive, and yet before him are maybe, what, thirty pools? Surely there are more connections to the thousands of planets out there—Lance's heart squeezes at the threat to his sliver of hope. What if there's no earth? All these places he could go, anywhere but home. A sick feeling settles in Lance's stomach.

But no, he tells himself, the pools probably aren't exclusive to one place. There must be a system. There has to be. Lance refuses to give up so quickly when he can taste the salt of the ocean breeze already, feel the sand's warmth under his toes, the pull of the tides and the gentle nudge of unabashed fish coming out to play.

Lance feels like he's wading through syrup, the air so thick that his movements drag, but he hazily heads to the next pool, and then another. An uninhabited planet with purple foliage that reeks of Galra domination before nature took over. A race of humanoid creatures with dark skin and Altean-esque markings that scatter across their bodies. The next pool; the next landscape—a flat and vacant grey, with some sort of lizard-dog hybrids prowling across the ground until they suddenly scramble for cover, running from the spontaneous geysers cracking through the rock.

Lance feels his chest stutter with panic. What if he can't go back? What if he's honestly, truly, stuck out here in space? There's only a few pools left for him to check: three—a dusty planet with a shifting surface, and glowing eyes that materialize from the hazy ground before once again fading—two, now...

A laugh, carefree and light, echoes from behind Lance. Heart pounding, he whirls, frantic gaze searching the clearing for its source.

There's no one there.

An acorn plops unceremoniously from a tree nearby.

Lance jumps. Is he going insane? That's exactly what he needs, homesickness and space-fever. How long until he started eating dirt or something stupid like that? How long until his frazzled brain forgets the taste of his mother's cooking, the warmth of his siblings' hugs, the cool of the ocean breeze.

The laugh floats to his ears again, followed by a voice: “ _¡Ay! Caterina, ¡Basta ya!_ ”

And Lance _knows_ that voice. He listened as it took form, he held its owner the first time it was used, mock offense that it didn't utter his name. Isabella was always the uppity one of the group, excluding Lance (he was the perfect child, thanks very much), and her first spoken word was a violent screech of _No!_ when Lance scooped her into his arms and tickled her until she nearly wet herself laughing.

That same voice, calling out a ceasefire, is interrupted by giggles and squealing, the sound flitting to Lance's ears as he scrambles for the pool, one of the ones he already checked, from which it originates. He falls down, staring numbly onto the stark beach of Cuba. Caterina, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, is relentless, attacking Izzy's sides with prying fingers as they roll together across a large towel sprawled out in the sand. The taste of salt stings Lance's throat, and, just barely, he can smell his mother's carne guisada wafting from down the road, where he knows their small home stands waiting.

But—they haven't lived there for years, not since Caterina went to school, two years before Lance joined the Garrison.

Suddenly, the image shifts, rippling into vague colors before solidifying into the now-familiar vision of Lance's home in south Texas. The scent of oranges, fresh and wild, pours over him from the grove next door, and, in the distance, he can see Jonathon creeping out the backdoor and towards the tree, probably trying to sneak off to steal some fruit, the little devil. Lance feels his heart squeeze from the memory of dissauding and encouraging that practice in equal messures, all depending on if his mother was watching.

Caterina drifts out of the back door, stretching as she watches Jonathon wander off, a soft frown on her face. She's wearing a long sleeve shirt, even though the Texas sun shines bright across the scene, so it must be winter, and Caterina's back for her last winter vacation before graduation. How close is it to Christmas? There's lights on the porch, so faint in the sun because someone must have forgotten to turn them off in the morning. Is Mom already getting ready to make tamales for Christmas Eve, or did Lance miss the celebration?

If he did, did they leave gifts under the tree for him as some desparate plea that maybe, maybe, if not then, that one day Lance would be able to come back and claim them? Did they miss him the same way he missed them? The way he longs for Caterina's gentleness, Izzy's rambuctiously endless energy, Jonathon's mischeif—his mother. _His mother_. Lance aches down to the bone. He's so close. He could tip through the surface of the water, land on the dry grass, and Caterina would hear the undignified thud and go to investigate.

She'd find him in a heap of scuffed white and blue, and yeah, the fall would hurt, if that's how these portals work, but Lance would grin up at her, a bit bruised but elated. She'd scoop Lance into her arms, and they'd sit together and cry for the time they've lost, and Caterina would bring Lance inside and his mom's actions would stutter from shock at Lance's sudden appearance.

She'd feign anger for a heartbeat, fury passing over her expression before it floods with unbridled love and relief, just like that one time Isabella “ran away” to the Valero a couple of blocks away and Mom went crazy looking for her. His mom would wrap him in the tightest hug Lance had ever received, and Lance would hug her back, and neither would let go for a very, very long time.

He imagines there are probably new wrinkles worrying her brow, new grey hairs dotting her chocolate hue, all because of him. He'll apologize for each of them...

Lance will only find out if he bucks up and takes the plunge.

If he lets his vision glaze over, unfocused, he can just see his silhouette, a shadow on the water. Lance swallows hard, and looks around, over his shoulder. He listens, and only hears Caterina's soft hum as she settles herself on the porch to keep an eye on Jonathon. There are no other paladins—no one came for Lance. They don't need him.

Lance looks back to the pool. He takes a deep breath—should he hold his breath?—and he hovers uncertainly over the surface. He reaches his hand forward, hesitant only for a moment, and then plunges it into the water, ripples distorting the image of home, sunlit rays bending in the waves. He feels the pull of family at him, wrapping around his arm and pulling him in, and Lance tips forward.

He sucks in air, closes his eyes as he braces for the cold splash.

And then he's yanked harshly backwards, spluttering fury.

“What the hell, Lance!” Keith screeches, arms wrapped around him and he scrambles backwards, tugging Lance with him.

The pull on Lance's arm doesn't stop—home, home, home—but instead of comfort and warmth, a dark shadow, tendrils wrapped around Lance's arm like a vise, follows them as it's dragged from the pool.

Lance lets out a yelp, but Keith's bayard is already there, slashing at the creature, a flash of vehement red again the dark. The severed limb fizzles to nothing, and the monster rears back with a cry, violent in the silence of the forest.

It's a crow's call.

Lance struggles against Keith's hold, lunging forward after the creature. “ _Nonono_ ,” he gasps out, tears blurring his vision. “I—I was so close—it can't—”

“Lance!” Keith hisses, and tackles him before Lance can reach the pool. He presses between Lance's shoulder blades, a weight on him, on his dreams.

They can't just be dreams. There must be more.

His fingers graze harshly against the rock surrounding the pool. “I-it can't be a trick—I saw—I saw them—I—”

“Lance, it's _fake_ ,” Keith growls, close to his ear, and Lance's body heaves for air and an attempt to steel itself against the onslaught of emotion that rips through him. Keith lets up, just barely, but hovers over him anyway.

“No, no, it can't... I saw h-home, Keith. _Home_.”

“Lance, _Lance_ ,” Keith says, voice equal measures anger and concern. “It's this planet. Pidge found some stuff in the ruins, and things didn't add up. It tricks the inhabitants to seeing what the want, or as close as it can get, and then lures them here, to the—well, Pidge called them Pockets.”

Lance doesn't reply, just chokes on a sob, fingers scrabbling against the stones, wearing against the gloves of his suit.

“I'm going to get up now, so can you promise not to jump in any deadly puddles?”

Lance's fingers still on the rock. He lets out a high whimper. Suddenly the longing, how close he was—if only Keith had let him jump. At least he'd be happy, even if he was consumed by this vicious planet. Bracing his arms underneath him, Lance shoves upward.

Keith tumbles off him with a soft yelp. “Lance!”

“Why can't you just leave me alone?” Lance snaps, whirling. He's crying, he knows—crying in front of Keith—but he can't bring himself to care, not when his blood boils with fury and his being longs for the Milky Way's Blue Planet. “Why can't you just let me go home?”

Keith's gaze narrows from surprise to something darker, indecipherable. “No one is stopping you from leaving, Lance.”

“You just did!” Lance cries.

“You almost _died_!” Keith yells back, jumping to his feet to crowd towards Lance's personal space, hair and eyes wild. “I saved your life!”

“ _My hero_ ,” Lance drawls, voice dripping venom.

“Lance, I—” Keith clamps his mouth shut, and growls, low in his throat. Finally, he manages in a level voice: “I don't want to fight anymore.”

“Well, if I'm gone, we won't have to!”

“We never had to in the first place!”

“Just leave me alone! I just—” Lance's voice cracks, and with it, his entire being. “I... just want to go home. I saw—I saw my family, Keith—Caterina and I-Isabella and Jonathon, and I—could have seen my mom and...” Lance's breath hitches, too tight in his chest, and in the next moment, he loses the strength to hold himself up, the fight gone.

But Keith is already stepping forward to catch him, and Lance falls into the embrace. He clings to Keith, barely managing to find leverage against his shoulders, and lets the sobs wreak through him. Keith holds him tight enough that Lance can maybe pretend it's one of his mom's hugs. 

“I'm—not good at this,” Keith says softly, breath ghosting against Lance's neck. “But—uh—when I was in foster care, I heard some advice. Someone told me to count the things I love. So each night, I would watch the sky and count the stars, and for each star I would name something I loved, or something or someone that made me happy that day, or something I was thankful for. It was hard to feel lonely when I had such a long list of good things to think about.”

“I don't belong here,” Lance whispers to the shoulder of Keith's armor. “I don't know why Shiro keeps me around. I'm useless. Replaceable.”

“Lance,” Keith breathes, and then his hands are pulling Lance's face up to connect their gazes. “Lance, you don't really think that, do you?”

“I...” Lance searches Keith's eyes. He finds concern and care and compassion there, all things he last expected from the blazing prodigy paladin. Lance swallows. “Keith, yo-you're perfect. Shiro loves you and he hates me, and you just don't see the privilege you have.”

“Shiro doesn't think that,” Keith says, lips twisting into a harsh scowl at the thought. “And even then, what about Pidge and Hunk? Hunk's your best friend.”

“Sure,” Lance says, and laughs out a broken noise. “But they get along so much better, with the engineering and tech and I can't do any of that—don't understand any of it—and I'm not good at fighting, or flying.”

“Blue—Blue _loves_ you,” Keith splutters. “Red's always mad at me because apparently Blue won't shut up about you.”

“I—Really?”

“Listen, Lance,” Keith says firmly. There's no arguing with the tone of his voice, and it's something Lance thought only Shiro could manage. “We're going to go back to the team and I'm gonna show you how much we need you. I know we can't replace your family, but you're not alone. We can help you. You just have to let us. And then you can decide if you want to leave. Got it?”

Lance nods, slowly.

“Good,” Keith says, and without missing a beat, wraps his hand around Lance's and begins leading him through the clearing, back into the forest, back to the ruins where the others are waiting.

Lance feels it all coming down around him. His broken window, barely held together, shatters inward, and Keith barrels in. Behind him, the rain pours, and the storm rages on, flooding the room, but somehow Keith is an anchor, even as the water rushes in. Lance is saved from being swept away by the tight hold of their fingers laced together.

And when they return, Hunk is the first to wrap Lance in a crushing squeeze. Shiro and Pidge join only moments later, and Keith never lets go of Lance's hand, even though he's squished between Shiro and Hunk's shoulders.

The storm begins to dissipate—the hurricane and winds subside, and when Lance looks through the window, he sees starlight, ageless and perfect. He might not recognize the constellations, but the twinkle of galaxies is a universal constant, and part of him hopes his family clings to that thought.

Because that's what Keith actually brought in with him—not rain, but _hope_.

 

“Keith,” Lance breathes.

“What?”

Lance doesn't startle—it's becoming a far more common occurrence for Keith to join him in the control room, where Lance counts the stars.

“I took your advice,” he says, patting the ground next to him idly without looking over his shoulder. “I'm naming what makes me happy.”

“Oh,” Keith squeaks, settling down next to Lance. “You—uh—okay.”

Lance laughs. It's soft and broken, but it's also raw and real. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

“Oh,” Keith repeats, though he sounds far less flustered. “Can—can you tell me about them?”

“What?”

“Your family,” Keith clarifies, then rushes to add: “You don't have to, I j-just... I've never had one. The team is the closest thing I have, and I'm... curious, I guess.”

It's Lance's turn to breath out a soft, “Oh. I... Well. A family is like... You don't always get along with everyone, but you're the first to jump to their defense as soon as someone insults them. And you fight a lot because someone ate the last poptart, but you also spend hours laughing together, and yeah, maybe you get punched in the face when you refuse to stop tickling someone, but it's all good. It's messy and everyone is always annoyed at someone else, or Mom is always yelling, but you feel like you're a part of something bigger than you and in the end, you all care for each other more than anything... It's a lot like—” Lance chokes on the words, realizing there are tears falling down his cheeks.

 _It's a lot like Voltron_.

Lance takes a deep breath, and then takes Keith's hand in his. “It's a lot like us.”

“Lance,” Keith whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I'm counting the stars for what makes me happy.”

“Didn't you also name stars for the things you love?”

Keith blinks back at Lance for a moment, violet eyes wide and unassuming, and Lance sees the honesty there. “Yes, I do,” Keith says, quiet but strong. “And the things I'm thankful for.”

“Which one am I?” Lance asks.

“All of them.”

Lance makes a choking noise in the back of his throat, voice catching on a happy sob. “I w-wouldn't be here without you, Keith—not just the Pocket, but I wouldn't—I wouldn't have stayed if you didn't convince me to.”

“I'm glad you stayed,” Keith says.

“I'm glad I did too. I mean, don't get me wrong, I still miss—Mmph!” Lance cuts off.

Because Keith is suddenly pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, and Lance is blinking in surprise at him. And then Lance is leaning in to kiss him this time, and he realizes something.

Lance was so caught up in harboring his homesickness that it didn't occur to him that he was also closing off his heart to new family. His team will never replace his Mom and siblings, but they're just as important, and Lance feels his heart swell with the new additions. He's not home, but he has one, somewhere in the distance, and maybe he can have another home, too, here in the circle of Keith's arms.

He's no longer broken, no longer empty. He has Keith and he has hope. He's safe, and though he'd still kill a man to have some carne guisada, Lance finally feels like this is where he _belongs_.

He scatters the names of those he loves over every galaxy he visits, names them in the stars. He takes his family with him wherever he goes.

Lance finds himself naming more and more stars after Keith.

Keith, the typhoon, the hurricane, the raging storm, who breaks down Lance's defenses and somehow, in all his untamed ferocity, grounds Lance, a reminder of who he is and who he aims to be.

He has a _family_ , and he has a _home_. There's a difference, now, Lance realizes.

His mom, Caterina, Isabella, Jonathon.

And then Keith.

**Author's Note:**

> Ohboy. Okay, so this was attempt number one for a klance zine submission but the word count had to get changed and also I wasn't super happy with how this turned out with the intent of it being in the zine, sO. Here we are. The pools are inspired by C. S. Lewis in... the Magician's Nephew, I think? I don't know? One of the Narnia books. Pretty sure it was the Magician's Newphew.  
> Also the zine theme is stars and water aka why there's a ridiculous amount of both of those being mentioned.  
> So shoutout for the Intertwined Galaxies klance zine set to come out in the summer I believe??? Check it out @klancezine2017 on twitter.  
> Also thanks to pev on discord for helping me proof this and I'm like 80% sure fluff did nothing actually constructive reading this but at least they boosted my ego by screaming about it so thanks babe because as a writer i crave constant validation


End file.
